


In The Shape Of You

by caitfair24



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Insecurity, Mild Suggestiveness, Romance, Self-Esteem Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-29
Updated: 2019-05-29
Packaged: 2020-03-29 10:27:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19018045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caitfair24/pseuds/caitfair24
Summary: My submission for day 27 of @itsbuckysworld's Hello Spring 2019 Writing Challenge. The prompt was "white party." Five dresses and tons of pressure on New Year's Eve.





	In The Shape Of You

You meet her in the mirror. 

Black eyeliner, winged at the corners; a crimson smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. The lingerie pinches in all the wrong places, and the lace feels too formal for something no one will be seeing. 

“So, option one...”

The woman is nice. Friendly. A civilian hired by Pepper to help you, Natasha, and Wanda prepare for this evening’s celebration. A New Year’s Eve Party, a vision in pure white. The main room of the compound draped in ice and snow, lit up from within by the glow of reprieve, of peace. Of a few hours’ freedom. 

And yet, there you stand, acquainting yourself with this strange, powdered, plucked, and perfumed image that _looks_  like you, just a little. Yes, there’s the quirk of your mouth; the small scar from that fight in Belfast. Flyaway baby hairs  that haven’t yet been slicked down, and -- yes, you’ve dribbled champagne down your chin. 

Classy. 

Eyebrows furrowed in concentration (or disapproval, you’ve never been able to tell), Pepper slips the flute from your fingers, setting it down gently on top of your dresser. It’s plain; nondescript. Simple. And there’s something to be said for that, isn’t there?

Option one is tight. You suck in a deep breath, willing the zipper to glide, not clunk upwards in embarrassing fits and starts. When it reaches the top, the woman -- Angela? Angie? Agatha? -- presses featherlight fingertips to your shoulders, gently urging you to turn and face the mirror again. 

For a moment, you stare, looking for yourself in the smoothly contoured makeup, the sharp lines and the cascading bodice of the dress. A diamond pendant is draped over your neck; Angela-Angie-Agatha grins. “You like? I like. Can you turn for me?”

You twist and turn in question, searching for a familiar handhold -- ah. You find purchase in the exposed skin of your legs, the ghost of stubble peppering your thighs. A scar snaking behind your right knee. 

And you shake your head. 

Ever the professional, Angela-Angie-Agatha merely nods once, then twice. It’s a language within itself, a silent speech of acceptance and small gratification. She won’t bother buttering you up, because there’s four more options. 

You take another sip of champagne. Bubbles bloom on your tongue; embarrassment nips at your skin at the sight of the next dress. 

Two. A bandeau. Full, frothy skirt. Gems that wink at your wrists and fingers. “We’ll need a bolder lip,” Angela-Angie-Agatha muses, tilting your chin left and right. You watch your stomach, vulnerable and shy, tremble in the space between.  “Turn for me.” 

You imagine blue eyes, piercing yours; scanning up and down. The same way he studies you in the training room; watches your blind spots on missions. 

And you shake your head. 

Three comes with a panel of lace, an intricate design that make Pepper clap her hands and declare her work done. “I’m going to check on Wanda,” she says happily, kissing your cheek. “You look perfect, Y/n.” Her heels click confidently, securely across the hardwood of your bedroom floor, but she pauses at the door. Looks back with a wink. “He’s going to lose his mind,” she whispers conspiratorially. 

You give her a weak smile. 

“It’s classic,” Angela-Angie-Agatha gushes. “Simple, with some vintage influences.” She tugs at the skirt, watches as you stumble in the white, glittery heels. “What do you think? Turn for me.”

Shoulders too wide; arms overworked; silvery stretch marks that curl out from the cup of the sleeves.

And you shake your head. 

Four is short, necessitating pure white heels that give you five unwanted inches, and you teeter for a moment, bracing yourself against the wall. Bubble sleeves that rest comfortably at your wrists; Angela-Angie-Agatha tucks your hair over one shoulder. Urges you to look closely, take it in. 

But all you can see is a mile of leg, and you don’t like it. You feel so exposed, so ready for judgement; your mind skates over to Natasha’s curves, Wanda’s willowy grace. In contrast, you’re so....ordinary. 

Those blue eyes flash in your mind again. 

And you shake your head. 

The time is ticking; Angela-Angie-Agatha’s mouth flattens into a thin line, and you wonder how far away the threshold is -- the one which ends with her chloroforming you and forcing you into a white dress of her choice. 

She turns you away from the mirror for number five. Cool air kisses the revealed skin of your back; a bow that ties at the nape of your neck, the silky ribbons draping down and tickling you with every small movement. Long sleeves. A sapphire on your right hand; diamonds in your ears. She piles your hair high, wipes the deeper crimson from your lips and gives you a bright red. 

In the mirror, you meet _her_. “I’m going to give you a minute,” Angela-Angie-Agatha says quietly. “Just take it in, okay?”

Doubt steals your breath, brings you down to the edge of your bed. With this new angle, you can see the truth -- the way your stomach compresses unimpressively; the flimsiness of the hairstyle; the unflinching honesty of the smooth, clinging fabric. The red lip -- so bold on others -- seems phoney on you, somehow. A girl pretending. Playing dress up. 

_Blue eyes_. 

Icy and true, a glacier of a gaze. You miss it when you don’t have it. The ghost of his laughter --  a rarity for everyone but you -- echoes in your ears now, the price of a joke you’ve told or a smirk you’ve shared. But he’s never seen you like this. For him, you wear black and blue, bruises and kevlar. Face scrubbed clean, then stained with sweat. 

He’s seen you at your worst, your dirtiest, your weakest. Trembling on the ground, twitching with pain. The carefully-constructed disguise of impassive agent dashed away with a faint whimper, a whisper of his name as he tugs you up and away. 

Those blue eyes have seen your soul -- so why is showing him your body so, so terrifying? 

You stand again, face the mirror like an enemy. Summon that glare, that special Y/n glare that once reduced a Hydra colonel to a quivering mess on the floor. 

_There she is_. 

She’s still there. Contoured and calculated, of course, and there’s nothing wrong with that -- nothing wrong with it at all. But for a woman used to disguise, to subterfuge, this alienation sours your stomach. Burns your skin from the inside out, and abruptly, you want nothing more than a pair of pyjamas, an evening to yourself. _If I’ve got to hide,_ you think, _then let me hide here. Safe in my bedroom. Away from him_. 

Away from the warmth of him. The firm lines. The press of him against you in a crowded elevator; the futile scent of alcohol on his breath. The clean, damp sweep of his hair; and the rough comfort of his beard. He’s brushed it against you before, in the heat of a sparring match, and you’d had to fight the shiver harder than you fought him. 

It’s pointless. 

Utterly pointless. 

And you shake your head. 

You’re just reaching for the champagne glass when the knock comes. Light and informal, so it can’t be Angela-Angie-Agatha, come back to force you downstairs. “Yeah,” you say, tipping your head back to empty the flute. 

He enters in a wave of musk and frustration, eyes fixed firmly on the loose white tie dangling from his neck. A vision in crisp ivory -- long dark hair swept back; beard trimmed neatly. His hands work at the tie, silky strands that he curses at harshly before shooting a glance up at you, no doubt with a request for help ready to be fired off. 

That glacier gaze. 

Your heart pounds and your stomach lurches as he freezes halfway between the door and your bed, hands tumbling to his sides and jaw twitching as he scans you in the white dress, empty glass in hand and fingers trembling in self-consciousness. You feel the heat of embarrassment crawling up your neck. 

“Hey,” he says faintly. “You, uh....you look...”

_Nice. Pretty._ You wait for a distant, polite compliment. Friendly, even. 

“Damn, doll. You look _incredible_.” 

A moment that stretches and dips, lengthening with the force of an unexpected starburst of hope. It shatters, fractals of light warming your skin as you meet his eyes -- and much to your surprise, to a small fluttering of joy, you see earnestness there. 

He’s telling the truth. 

But the dress pulls tightly at the curve of your waist, at the last vestige of composure, and you want to cry. This isn’t you, this isn’t you. Your vision goes watery, and you look away, down at your neatly-made bed. What you wouldn’t give to crawl between those sheets, ring in the New Year with an old movie and some popcorn. 

Bucky notices; of course he does. You’ve been partners in the field more time than you can count; he’s trained himself to read your emotions, just as closely as you’ve attuned yourself to his. It’s necessary; helps you anticipate movements, exchange weighted glances that convey plans, intentions. So when he notices the tears in your eyes, the clothing rack of rejected options, the shoes scattered on the floor and the slight tremor in your right hand, he steps closer. Expression softening. “What’s wrong?” he asks, lowering his voice, a bedside manner that jolts something deep inside of you. “You okay?”

“Just, um, nervous.” You try to muster smile, keenly aware of the cakey feel of the lipstick, the silent creak of feigned blitheness. “This party, you know.” 

He grins. Plucks the champagne glass from your hand and sets it back on the dresser. “I know what you mean. Stark is, uh...well, it seems like a lot. I feel like a...I don’t even know what, in this suit. An idiot, for one.” He removes the tie, sliding it from his shoulders and draping it over the edge of the iron rack, nestling it against the dresses you were too scared to wear -- his gaze returning to the one you haven’t yet put back. 

“No,” you reassure him warmly. “You look great.” 

“Thanks.” Bucky stretches his arms, biceps -- flesh and metal --  straining at the seams of the white shirt. “So what’re you so nervous about, Y/n?” He tilts his head quizzically, genuine concern flitting into his gaze. “Dancing?” 

You can’t help but laugh -- you’re a notoriously poor dancer, but even _that’s_ the furthest thing from your mind. The light flutter of even this muted mirth is enough to dissipate some fog, the tension simmering in your veins, plaguing the air between you. Bucky’s shoulders relax, and he takes a step closer. “No,” you murmur, a relaxed smile tugging at the corner of your mouth. “Not the dancing.” 

“What then? What’s got you feeling like this?”

He genuinely _cares_. And now, you're not just an agent and a super-soldier, nor yet two friends in awkward formal wear. No, the moment crests, a heady mixture of perfume and cologne, the soft light of a candle flickering and reflecting the blue jewel on your finger; the shimmer of your professionally-manicured nails. The iced gleam in his eyes. And the wave of it, the neat symphony, melts away the fear in your belly, the fear of being exposed. 

The fear of tight material, of the revelation of too many secrets, the elements of _you_  that you normally hide beneath layers. The vulnerabilities that are now open to the world, raw nerves every one. 

But you don’t see those vulnerabilities in his eyes. Instead, you see interest, you see a sweet sense of affection that has you taking a step backwards. Confusion rattling your bones. 

And the secret slips out. 

“I’m not like them,” you whisper, sliding your gaze down to the open buttons of his shirt, just three -- enough to offer you a tantalizing glimpse of tanned skin, a dusting of hair. “You know Tony” -- you clear your throat; raise your voice -- “he’ll have actual supermodels down there. And Wanda, Nat, Maria...”

There’s surrender in your admission, a tossing out of suppressed anxieties. You fling them across the scant space between you, half-wanting him to catch hold of them -- half-wanting him to stomp them into dust. You can’t help but infuse a little boldness in your words, a dare: _I’m not them, and I don’t give a shit_. 

The problem is, though, that you _do_  give a shit. A rather substantial one. There’s a part of you that’s been craving this day -- pampering, a massage, fingers soaked in scented water and limbs eased with lavender-scented cream. The perfume behind your ears, that feels decadent; the gentle sweep of your hair against your shoulders, the diamonds in your ears, even the elegance of wearing pure white in winter -- it’s been a day of luxury. Of softening, yielding. For a few hours, you relinquished yourself, given in to private moments of relaxation. 

But now, standing there in front of Bucky -- with him looking, smelling, just  _being_ gorgeous -- you’re doused by a cool wash of panic. How can you go down there, mingle with perfection, just as you? You in a white dress. You in expensive makeup, in borrowed jewelry. As though that’s all it takes. 

“You really don’t know, do you?” Bucky’s voice is hoarse, ragged with something you can’t name, but which warms you all the same. 

“Know what?” 

He stretches out a hand, inviting you to a dance, and spins you, slowly, until you’re facing the floor length mirror, the one brought in especially by Angela-Angie-Agatha for tonight. Bucky smoothes his hands down the length of your arms, silently conveying an order: _Stay right there_. 

With a click, your bedside lamp adds a warm glow to the room; he crosses and switches off the overhead lights, casting you both in shards and shadows. There’s another, smaller lamp on top of your dresser; this illuminates your face in the mirror, a softer light than Angela-Angie-Agatha and Pepper had demanded for your self-conscious fashion show. 

He earns a shiver when he steps behind you again, the spice of his cologne sparking against the skin left uncovered by the high neck of the dress. You meet his gaze in the mirror, watching as flames burst in the glacier -- a contrast that seems to glow from within. “Look at you,” he says softly, tenderly. Honestly. “You’re so beautiful, sweetheart. _Look_.” 

Bucky catalogues you with lips and gentle fingertips, frequent verifications -- “ _Is this okay? Can I touch you here_?” -- and breathlessly, you consent, again and again. Your skin blazes at his touch; your soul burns brighter. A kiss pressed behind your ear is more exquisite than the diamond pinned there. 

By the time he’s helped you from your shoes, loosened the ribbons tying the dress together in the back, you turn to _him_  instead. The only mirror you really need -- the flushed pleasure upon his face tells you more than pure glass ever could. You don’t look beautiful; you _feel_ it. Bucky’s admiration is tangible, tactile, and it presses against you, tracing circles on your covered arms.

He takes down your hair, and you loosen four buttons, shaking fingers reaching out to claim his flesh. Dim light, the yielding of resolve, of professionalism -- it’s an intoxicating drink, far more delicious than the champagne. “I don’t want to go downstairs,” you say, awe gilding every word. 

“Doll --” he sighs, preparing for another lecture, but you stop it. You end it with the warm glide of your lips upon his, catching a groan on your tongue that makes you wonder -- makes you _marvel_  -- that you’ve waited this damn long. That you ever thought you didn’t deserve this. Him. 

“Bucky,” you say firmly. “I don’t want to go downstairs.” 

It’s not fear, now; it’s not vulnerability. It’s the heat of his flesh hand at your back; the cool reprieve of his metal one upon your waist. It’s contentment, it’s wonder, it’s pure unadulterated _instinct_  that makes you realize you don’t want to go downstairs. There is no party, no midnight celebration amidst the rich, the famous, and the heroic that could compare to the maddening pleasure of this moment, this space, this world of soft light and a whisper of silk; the scratch of his beard against your skin and the burn of _him_ , the flame of _him_ under your touch. 

“Oh.” A grin bursts on his face, brightens the blue of his gaze. “Well, _that_  sounds like a plan.” 

He tastes of hope and relief, of months of friendship and that deep connection forged in fights and fear. You feel your limbs loosening, lean into him, stumble towards something better, something far, far, better -- until there’s a knock at the door. 

It’s rushed. Impatient. 

Angela-Angie-Agatha, back with the chloroform? 

A low growl in his throat, Bucky releases you, strides bare-chested to the door and wrenches it open. Nonplussed, Angela-Angie-Agatha stands there with a white, velvety clutch in hand, and no reaction. “Yes?” he asks tightly, voice thick with desire. With want. For _you_. 

“I just wanted to confirm” -- an arched-eyebrow gaze finds you across the room, and you try to regulate your breathing -- “is this the dress?” 

Bucky glances over his shoulder, a question and laughter hidden somewhere in his expression, but you know him well enough to translate. Hugging your own arms about yourself, you give him an amused nod. _Go ahead_. 

“Melanie, wasn’t it?” he clarifies, and she nods crisply. 

_Melanie? How did you get -- never mind._

“Thanks for your help, Melanie,” he says smoothly, generously. “Really -- _thank you_  -- but Y/n won’t be in need of a dress tonight.” 

Mortification stains your cheeks, even though it must have been fairly evident you hadn’t been helping Bucky with his tie. 

“Hmm.” Ange- _Melanie_ looks him up and down, lips pursed. “Turn for me,” she says sharply, demonstrating with one finger. “Go on.”

He obliges, turning to face you and stopping when she tells him to freeze. You bite back a grin at the look on his face -- somewhere between deer-in-the-headlights and _What the hell is going on?_  -- and watch as, behind him, Melanie scans the length of him. She nods at you approvingly. “He’ll do. Hang up that dress before it wrinkles.” 

Bucky locks the door behind her. 

“Why do I feel objectified right now?” he asks, sliding his hands around your waist, pulling you close enough that you needn’t lean forward to trail a chain of kisses along the edge of his jaw. “She was checking out my ass, wasn’t she?”

You tip your head back to laugh; but he takes advantage of the exposed access to your neck, and you reward him with a sigh. “I think it was more of an inspection,” you murmur, meeting him again. “But don’t worry; I’m thinking you passed muster, Sergeant.” 

He pulls back, eyes widening at the last word. “Oh, yeah, let’s, uh, let’s make _that_ a regular thing.” 

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” 

You tug the shirt from his shoulders, savour the metal beneath your fingertips. A gliding touch, a gentle conquering -- his voice, raspy and strained in your ear, sends heat racing down your spine: “What’ll you do if I give you some line about how much better that dress is gonna look on the floor, doll?” 

Two steps back. Hands trembling, but sure -- far surer than you’ve been all night. With the swiftness of a soldier -- the speed and agility he’s only seen in the field -- you slide the dress from your body, let it pool on the floor at your feet. Watch him swallow, hard. 

“That.” 


End file.
